


Beside You

by Rosesinthebathwater



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hospitalization, M/M, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:24:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1933848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosesinthebathwater/pseuds/Rosesinthebathwater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was challenged to stretch my writing muscles and add a song fic to my repertoire.   This is what happened.</p>
<p>Thank you to Marianas Trench for the killer lyrics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beside You

_When your tears are spent on your last pretense_  
 _And your tired eyes refuse to close and sleep in your defense._  
 _When it's in your spine like you've walked for miles_  
 _And the only thing you want is just to be still for a while_

 

The door to the vacant warehouse slammed open onto a narrow, damp stairwell. Sherlock Holmes took the stairs two at a time, light from his torch flickering weakly in front of him. He climbed quickly, breath catching in his throat. He knew that John Watson was about half a block behind him but he could not afford to stop and wait. Sherlock’s legs were beginning to tremble with the effort after running flat out for the better part of three kilometers, but he still pressed forward, heaving himself up as he grasped the railing with his free hand. His curls were clinging to his forehead as the sweat rolled down his back. He would have loved to take off his long coat, but carrying it would only slow him down; there wasn’t time enough for that.

At the top of the fifth flight, there was another door which was cracked open. Sherlock drew up quickly and took a steadying breath willing his hands and legs to continue to cooperate. He could hear John climbing hurriedly in the background. Sherlock jerked the door open but did not step through it. His gaze swept quickly over the warehouse roof which was illuminated by two spot lights that were pointed haphazardly to the center of the long expanse, making it difficult for him to see anything past the lighted area. Squinting, he tried to look past the glare and eventually, he was able to make out the form of a figure toward the edge of the roof. He pressed his mouth into a thin line and felt a sudden tightness in his chest. From this distance and with the interference of the lighting, he could not determine much about the fate of the figure, but he knew immediately that it was a man, about his height, bound to a metal chair.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a long moment, trying to clear his head and pick up any additional clues as to what lay outside the door. It had been over ninety-six hours since he had last slept - every moment of his time and attention focused on finding his brother. 

_Just a little longer._

Focusing intently, Sherlock concentrated on the sounds and smells around him. He heard the soft sound of feedback from a walkie-talkie, London traffic in the distance and a helicopter somewhere near by. He smelled the damp-sweetness of abandoned air with just a trace of coppery tang indicating blood nearby. He heard a soft click and immediately the lights went out. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he made to move but forced himself to be still. He blinked furiously until the figure on the seat across the roof swam into focus and in that instant, the steel grip on his heart and lungs loosened by a fraction as the previously immovable figure picked up his head.

_Not too late!_

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” drawled a low male voice with an American accent, “It appears that your brother solved the puzzle after all.”

Sherlock watched as another figure sauntered into his sightline, framed in the doorway, blocking his view to Mycroft. The sound of the helicopter was getting closer and Sherlock felt John step up, breathing heavily, just behind him. Sherlock sucked in a breath as a feeling of claustrophobia swept over him and he twitched with the effort of not stepping onto the roof.

“So good of you to join us, Mister Consulting Detective,” the voice continued, as the figure turned and began walking in the direction of Mycroft who remained motionless on the chair.

John shifted behind Sherlock and Sherlock knew that he was drawing his weapon. Suddenly, Sherlock was running into the blinding light from the helicopter, which had crested over the roofline, right beside where Mycroft sat bound in the seat. The American dropped. Sherlock knew it was a shot from John’s gun which he couldn’t hear over the pounding of the helicopter rotors and his own heart.

Sherlock scrambled over to Mycroft, sinking to his knees and frantically tugging at the knot holding fast Mycroft’s ankles. The wind whipped up the dust and debris that was littering the roof, but the brothers paid it no mind. Sherlock pulled Mycroft’s feet gently forward into the light from the chopper. He could see that Mycroft was shaking his head and saying something but he couldn’t make it out. As soon as Sherlock tugged the rope away from Mycroft’s ankles, he leaned up into his brother’s space to begin working on the knots at his wrists.

In that moment, Mycroft laid his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder and this time, Sherlock was able to make out what it was Mycroft was saying.

“The chopper isn’t ours.”

The bullet that killed Mycroft Holmes exited his forehead, traveled clear through Sherlock’s left shoulder and embedded itself into the concrete of the roof. John reached his friends as the chopper was banking a hard right and flying swiftly into the dark night. It was as if the moment was frozen in time - a great stillness settling over everything until Sherlock slumped back to the ground, the dead weight of Mycroft and the chair, pinning him in place.

It took John a moment to realize the screaming that he heard was himself.

~~~~~

_If your heart wears thin I will hold you up_  
 _And I will hide you when it gets too much_  
 _I'll be right beside you_  
 _I'll be right beside you_

 

John Watson sat slumped over, elbows on knees. His whole world had narrowed down to the incessantly high-pitched beeping which indicated every time Sherlock’s heart was successful in beating. The soft sound of the ventilator moving the air through Sherlock’s lungs was like white noise in the background; the rhythm of it making John breathe in time to match. He kept his eyes open, fixed on a scuff mark on the floor. It had been three hours since Sherlock had pulled through surgery. John knew he had flat-lined twice: once in the ambulance and once on the table. 

John couldn’t close his eyes because he kept seeing that frozen moment outside of time. It was the hands that kept coming back to him: the long elegant fingers, splayed across Mycroft’s still pink cheek. And then, Sherlock slumping back to the concrete rooftop, the deadweight of Mycroft and the chair settling on top of him. Incredibly, the motion did not shift Sherlock’s grasp and from now until the end of time, when John thinks of Mycroft, he will always see Sherlock’s long fingers, cradling Mycroft’s head gently, as if to stop the damage from happening.

The door to the private room cracked open. It seemed that Mycroft’s influence still stood firm in his death and Sherlock had been transferred immediately to a private room. John thought there might be guards, but he couldn’t be sure and hadn’t wanted to leave his spot to check.

“Greg,” John said, voice coming out in a rasp.

Greg Lestrade entered the hospital room carefully. He shut the door with a soft click and leaned against it for support. He looked five years older than he had just six hours before when John left him to run after Sherlock through the London night. For a moment John was immobilized by the injustice of the world - that his friend, Greg, would have to hear such agonizing news without the support that John and Sherlock would have given him.

“Greg, I’m- I’m so- I’m so sorry.” 

John’s voice came out in a strangled whisper as he pushed himself up from the chair. Unconsciously, John placed himself between Greg and Sherlock’s prone form. He thought there might be anger and he did not want that to breach Sherlock’s preternatural calm.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked mechanically, his face a mask.

“Flat-lined twice. Once on the way in and once during surgery. Bullet nicked his pulmonary artery. Lost a lot of blood. He’s stable right now. The next forty-eight hours are crucial.” 

John ticked off the facts in his best doctor voice, betraying none of the emotion which was clawing its way through his chest.

Silence settled heavily between the two men, broken only by the sound of the ventilator and the incessant beeping.

Greg pinned John with a fathomless gaze and John felt his stomach fall away. This is what comes from loving the Holmes men. He and Greg knew this; they spoke about it on occasion when one or the other had a pint too many. They knew it could be a reality, they just never thought it would be.

~~~~~

_When you're overwhelmed and you've lost your breath_  
 _When the space between the things you know is blurry nonetheless._  
 _When you try to speak but you make no sound_  
 _And the words you want are out of reach but they've never been so loud_

 

John helped Sherlock to settle on the sofa in the lounge at 221B. Sherlock was breathing heavily. Just the climb from the cab to the flat had exhausted him. John grabbed a crocheted blanket from the back of his armchair. Mrs. Hudson had made it for them at Christmas. 

_Christmas - it seemed so long ago now._

John placed the blanket carefully over Sherlock’s lap and turned to go into the kitchen. Sherlock heard the click of the kettle and he quirked a small smile. Tea, if you ask John Watson, fixes everything.

Sherlock turned, mouth compressing with the twinge of pain in his shoulder, to watch John standing silently in the kitchen. He thanked God that John was still here to stand in the kitchen. The thought immediately made him think of Lestrade. Sherlock suppressed a shudder, clutching the blanket reflexively, and John turned to look at him - as if the invisible thread that connected them twinged each time Sherlock tread into this mire of emotion.

Both men looked at each other without speaking. After a moment, John turned back to the tea, moving efficiently in the small kitchen. In another moment, he was walking in the direction of Sherlock on the sofa. 

John handed Sherlock the full mug carefully and drifted over to sit himself in his armchair. Both men sipped the hot tea, just sitting in the room, thankful to be taking up space in the universe.

“The funeral will be tomorrow,” John said quietly.

Sherlock studied him without replying.

“Greg and your mother made the decision to wait until you were well enough to attend. They felt it would be best.”

“Leave it to Mycroft to hang around on ice, waiting for some grand departure.”

Sherlock said this without heat. He met John’s gaze and then turned away, to look out the window. A vacant expression settled on his features and John frowned. He had tried a few times to discuss what happened with Sherlock, but when he brought it up in the hospital they had always been interrupted. John determined it was a discussion that would best wait until they returned home.

“This was not your fault, Sherlock,” John said, putting his tea on the side table and coming to sit on the low table across from Sherlock.

John plucked the mug of tea from Sherlock’s hands. He noticed they were trembling slightly. John lowered the mug onto the table next to him and took Sherlock’s hands into his own.

“I should have known - I - I should have seen -” Sherlock began, his voice just above a whisper, as he continued to gaze out the window shaking his head angrily.

John squeezed his hands gently. 

“Look at me,” John said softly.

Sherlock stilled, vacant gaze out the window and limp hands resting in John’s.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John said in a bit more of a commanding tone.

Sherlock turned to look at John and John had to swallow down the sudden lump in his throat. Never in all the years he and Sherlock had known one another had John ever seen the look of complete despair that painted his friend’s features. Sherlock blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears from falling. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, pressing it into a thin line.

John drew Sherlock to him gently.

“I know,” John said softly. “I know how much it hurts. I know - We all know how much you loved him.”

John rocked Sherlock gently. He held Sherlock tightly against his chest as the front of his shirt became soaked while Sherlock cried silent tears until he drifted asleep overcome with exhaustion..

~~~~~

_If your heart wears thin I will hold you up_  
 _And I will hide you when it gets too much_  
 _I'll be right beside you_  
 _I'll be right beside you_

_I will stay._  
 _Nobody will break you,_  
 _Yeah._

 

John kept a tight grip on Sherlock’s elbow as he walked with him down the long aisle of the Church. John was surprised when he found out the funeral was going to be in a Church but it was a request from Mrs. Holmes and none of the three of them were going to tell the grieving mother that Mycroft would have scoffed at such a thing.

John steered Sherlock into the front pew. Sherlock would be at one end, then John, then Greg and Mrs. Holmes at the other. John didn’t pay much attention to the minister. He was busy glancing around the packed congregation. It seemed as if much of London had turned out for the sad occasion. 

Sherlock shifted in his seat and John returned his attention to his best friend. It was time for the eulogy. Sherlock and Greg decided that Greg should be the one to speak. Mrs. Holmes bristled at this idea, but promptly dismissed her distress when Sherlock swore not to attend at all if she expected him to speak.

Greg spoke tenderly about the man he had come to know in Mycroft Holmes. He shared a side of Mycroft that none of the others had even known existed - a man who bought box seats to the Manchester United opening match to make Greg happy, one who skied during the winter months but only down the Alps dismissing any other snow covered mountains as mere hills, and a man who loved fiercely, stopping at nothing to keep those closest to him safe. And in fact, losing his own life to this purpose.

John felt Sherlock blanch and he looked to him questioningly. Sherlock shifted as if to stand, but John placed a gentle hand on his thigh and leaning closer whispered, “Just breathe with me.”

Sherlock focused his intent stare on John until they were breathing slow and steady, in unison.

Greg left the pulpit and the congregation stood as he descended the few steps to walk behind the coffin, offering Mrs. Holmes his arm. The solemn strains of the last movement of Bach’s Herz und Mund und Tat und Leben filtered out behind them and John cringed to see the sudden flash of press photographers as the coffin was wheeled from the building.

He took Sherlock by the hand, tugging him gently, until Sherlock was close to John’s side, opposite where the photographers were located. John positioned himself to make sure they could not get a single shot of Sherlock by himself. In fact, from the angle John had placed Sherlock, they probably couldn’t get a full-on shot of Sherlock’s face. 

The two men stood to the side beside Greg and Mrs. Holmes and watched as the pallbearers, made up of Mycroft’s security detail, gently slid the coffin into the back of the hearse. As the four of them turned to get into cars of their own, John noticed that Donovan and Anderson had wrangled back the press, forcing them to the opposite side of the road.

John slid in next to Sherlock and taking his hand, he squeezed gently. 

“It’s almost over,” John said. “I’m here if you need me. You’re doing very well, Sherlock. We’re almost done.”

~~~~~

_Trust in me, trust in me._  
 _Don't pull away_  
 _Trust in me, trust in me._  
 _I'm just trying to keep this together,_  
 _Because I could do worse and you could do better_

_Tears are spent on your last pretense_  
 _And your tired eyes refuse to close and sleep in your defense._

 

John entered Sherlock’s room and flipped the light on quickly. Sherlock was thrashing about the bed, feet caught in the bedcovers.

“Sherlock!” John said sharply from the door.

Sherlock moaned softly and writhed more forcefully.

John crossed the room in three steps and he leaned over the far side of the bed, closer to his friend, but out of the way of any flailing limbs.

“Sherlock!” John commanded in a loud voice.

Sherlock gasped, choking a bit on his own saliva. He coughed involuntarily as he struggled to sit up; eyes blinking wide as he looked around the room unseeing.

“Sherlock,” John said again, more gently, causing the man to turn his attention to John.

Sherlock’s eyes slowly focused on John’s as he heaved in lungfuls of air, gasping and still coughing.

“It’s just a nightmare,” John said gently, reaching out to stroke down the side of Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock yanked himself free of the covers and teetered unsteadily. John settled carefully on the edge of the bed and steadied Sherlock with one hand on his chest. The other hand John carded gently through Sherlock’s hair.

“You were having a nightmare,” John said again, by way of an explanation.

Sherlock was nodding his head as he leaned into John’s comforting touch. After a moment, Sherlock’s breathing had evened out and John put his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck pulling him close and holding him tightly.

“You’re okay, Sherlock,” John soothed. “I’m okay. We’re right here; that’s why I came in to wake you.”

“Mycroft’s dead,” Sherlock said in a tight voice.

“You didn’t do that, Sherlock,” John told him again, continuing to hold Sherlock tightly and make soothing circles on his back.

John held Sherlock until he was boneless against him. Then he helped Sherlock to settle back into bed.

Sherlock caught John’s hand as John turned to leave.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hush now,” John said quietly. “You need to go back to sleep. You’re still recovering, Sherlock.”

There was a long moment as John stayed still letting Sherlock hold him in place.

“Stay?” Sherlock asked in a small voice.

“Let me turn off the light.”

~~~~~

_If your heart wears thin I will hold you up_  
 _And I will hide you when it gets too much_  
 _I'll be right beside you_  
 _Nobody will break you_

 

John stood next to Sherlock in the courthouse while the jury read out their verdict. Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan stood on the opposite side. Both of them were watching John and Sherlock intently.

Sherlock had originally planned to have the assassin killed. He had found a few well placed government officials who had high regard for Mycroft. Sherlock had made some arrangements for once he managed to track the guy down with the full support of Mycroft’s colleagues. Interestingly enough, the assassin wasn’t a guy at all, but a petite blonde named Mary.

John had thrown a fit when he found out the assassin was his ex-wife, long suspected dead. He threw an even bigger fit when he found out Sherlock intended to kill the woman and they had the biggest row of their entire relationship. Sherlock dismissed John as being ludicrous in his sentimentality reminding him that this woman had killed Mycroft in cold blood. John, on his moral high horse, had refused to budge telling Sherlock that killing Mary wouldn’t bring Mycroft back.

Thankfully, Lestrade had pieced together enough of the puzzle that he had found Mary, had her arrested and brought before the highest court in the land. He didn’t think they would be able to hold her for long; he knew an escape plan was already in the works, but he had spent his entire life trusting in the system. And even though it was unable to keep Mycroft safe, he just didn’t know how to do anything else.

Lestrade was not sure if Sherlock had something up his sleeve however, and so he had asked Sally to accompany him to the sentencing, even though it was the last place in the world he wanted to be. 

The verdict was read, Mary was taken away - hands and feet both cuffed - and people began swarming out of the courtroom. John took Sherlock by the hand and led him carefully through the throng of people. They had just exited the room when Lestrade came at them from the hallway.

Without thinking, John placed himself between the still-grieving DI and his best friend.

“It’ll never be over, Greg,” John said gently, before Lestrade could say anything. “At least not for us.”

“I could have had her killed,” Sherlock said, looking down his nose at both of them, “It would have been over then.”

“Shut the hell up you ungrateful berk!” Lestrade yelled.

Donovan stepped up then and tugged hard on Lestrade’s sleeve. He gazed again angrily at Sherlock and John but then turned away and stomped down the long hall, pulling his sleeve from Donovan’s grasp.

“It was right of him to go,” Sherlock said.

“He’s angry, Sherlock. It’s something he needs to work through,” John explained.

Sherlock shrugged as the crowd continued to thin around them.

“Let’s go home,” John suggested. “Regardless of what you think, you won’t be able to get rid of me that easily.”

_If your heart wears thin I will hold you up_  
 _And I will hide you when it gets too much_  
 _I'll be right beside you_  
 _Nobody will break you_


End file.
